Unnecessary
by StrawberryBubble
Summary: "You need to sleep." "Sleep is unnecessary, John. I can function perfectly well without it." "Sherlock?" "Mm?" "You forgot to put your trousers on." Slight Johnlock; One-Shot


**A/N: This is my first attempt at a Sherlock story, so it may be a little OOC, but then again, they're both supposed to be extremely tired, to the point of being a little out of it anyway (like I am writing it -.- Insomnia. Woo.) so I'm hoping it won't be too bad...Hmm...****Hope you like it, guys! :)**

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**Unnecessary**

There were many things in life Sherlock Holmes believed he didn't need. The first would have to be food, as he had made it clear that he could go an extraordinary amount of time without eating anything. He hadn't been bragging then, merely stating facts that he _would not eat _while he was working on a case, and despite how much his flatmate and friend John Watson would bother him about it, he was exceptionally good at keeping that vow.

"You need to eat, Sherlock." John would say, holding out one thing or another, whether it was a full plate of food or merely a piece of toast. A little was still better than nothing at all.

"I don't eat when I'm working."

John would always roll his eyes in annoyance at the grumbled response before sauntering back into the kitchen. Sherlock knew this because he'd caught him on numerous occasions doing so, even calling him out on it once.

"You truly don't have to do that every time I say no to you."

John had stopped and turned back to him, his brows furrowed, looking over the man who he still had yet to see turn to him. "Do what?"

"You know precisely what."

And then John had rolled his eyes again and huffed out a breath before leaving anyway.

John honestly didn't know why he went to the trouble of pestering him about it. Maybe it was the fact that the detective was skinny—far more than he should have been. His cheekbones jutted out, sharp as glass, and his collarbone was visible in most of the shirts he wore, piercing through the fabric as if it were butter. And in the times he happened to have caught him without a shirt on, he could easily see how his ribs were significantly further protruding than his flat stomach was. It came off as if he ate practically nothing at all, even in the days he didn't have a case to be solved.

Or maybe he was just worried.

Having been in the war and all, John had quickly learned that, at any moment, the friends he had could be killed. He'd managed not to get too attached to anyone, even if he'd wanted to, for that very reason. But with Sherlock, it wasn't like that at all. John wasn't quite sure what he felt about the detective yet, be it simply a very strong friendship or more, but it was something substantially different to anything he'd experienced before. Whether it was on a particularly dangerous task they had to go through with or just him seeming like he was pushing off his own health to work, John couldn't prevent himself from being concerned. Protective, even, enough that he would do whatever he could to assure the other man came out of his daring cases alive. He'd even killed a man for him—that had to have been proof he cared, probably more than Sherlock wanted. He thrived off danger, and had even lied and said he'd had that instance completely under control before John had arrived.

But then again, just because someone didn't _want _something, didn't mean they didn't need it.

_Just like now, _John thought solemnly, watching his friend's head gradually begin to dip down for what must have been the tenth time in the same amount of minutes as he sat at the table in the living room of their flat, typing furiously on the laptop in front of him, the frantic movements of his fingers slowing each time his eyelids drooped. He was falling asleep, no matter how much he was trying to defy it. And it wasn't unexpected, either. After finally solving the case they'd both been awake nearly two and a half days straight by now for, he'd taken a shower, redressed himself, and was now doing one thing or another on the internet, acting like nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all.

"Sherlock."

His head jerked up and then shook slightly, returning to its original position. "_Yes,_ John?" The voice was obviously irritated, and John very vaguely wondered if he should instead keep his mouth shut and watch on in amusement until the detective fell out of his chair. Maybe it would knock some of the arrogance out of him.

Then he sighed. "You need to sleep."

"Sleep is unnecessary, John." The man was condescending now, like John was a fool for bringing the subject up. "I can function perfectly well without it."

The doctor tiredly smiled at that, noticing something his exhaustion had caused him to overlook before. "Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"You forgot to put your trousers on."

Sherlock blinked like the words didn't comprehend at first, finally gaining the sense to look down at his underwear and then clearing his throat, scooting his chair up further. "Thank you." he muttered, sounding like he was trying to tell him to be quiet. "Sleep if you'd like, I don't quite know why you feel the need to get me to do the same. I'm not tired."

"You are."

"I'm not."

"You _are. _You're nodding off now!"

Sherlock forced his eyes open, completely stopping his taps at the keyboard to glare at the doctor, scoffing at the childlike grin on his face. "I only sleep when I'm comfortable. Therefore I am _not _falling asleep here. Clearly you're in more need of it than you believe I am."

"Quite right," John yawned and then stood, stretching briefly, all the while keeping his eyes on the other man. "I suppose I'll be off to bed, then."

"Goodnight, John." Sherlock replied, monotone, and John held back another smile, staying where he was until the detective's eyes began sliding closed again not seconds later before he made his move, lunging forward and grabbing the laptop from him before he even knew what was happening, his mouth dropping open as John retreated to the couch, tucking his feet up under him as he sat.

"John!"

"Yes?" he asked innocently, clicking through what the other had been writing. "Really? You're passing up the perfect time to rest to update your site?"

Sherlock stood, scowling and coming over to try and grab the computer back. "Does that bother you?" he asked in exasperation.

John jerked the laptop out of his reach, clucking his tongue and chuckling as the detective swayed slightly and then took a seat beside him like the effort had drained him further.

"Not really, no." John replied, turning his back to his friend and propping the computer up on the armrest of the sofa, scrolling down through what had been typed out, thinking it very funny he'd finally found a way to irritate who was always irritating him. "All about you, Sherlock. It really fits."

"Give it back," Sherlock mumbled groggily, reaching his arm under John's to touch the mouse.

John stiffened, though didn't protest as Sherlock leaned nearer to him, seemingly unaware of just how close he was to him. "I have to save it," he said, and John shivered as his breath tickled his ear, nodding slowly.

Sherlock frowned when he'd finished, pulling away and leaning slightly to the side enough to see his face. "Why are you blushing?"

"I'm not."

"You are!"

"Stop it. I'm only tired."

Sherlock pursed his lips to the side and narrowed his eyes, taking on one of the many looks he had when he was deducing the other person, and then returned his arm to where it had been, feeling the other man tense up this time. Then he lowered his head onto his shoulder.

"W-what are you doing?" John managed to choke, his cheeks burning. He hadn't realized how easily embarrassed he was. Although, Sherlock didn't usually get—or stay—this close long enough for him to have a chance to, anyway. (Though, those times he had, he clearly remembered feeling the same.) Surely the detective was delusional from exhaustion—that had to be the explaination to this all. That or John himself was, or was merely having a vivid dream. Either way...he didn't really want it to stop.

"Noting your reaction."

John frowned, glancing at him out of the corner of his eyes. "What do you mean?"

The other gave a small shrug, gazing at the computer, stifling a yawn. He was _not tired._ "Does it matter?"

"Does _what_ matter?" John shook his head. "Is this another one of your experiments? Because—" His breath hitched in his throat as the arm stretched out in front of him suddenly drew back to be around his waist, his mouth remaining open for a moment before he closed it again hard, his teeth making a distinct noise as he did so.

"Does that bother you?" the detective asked again, though his voice was much softer, no longer sounding aggravated and instead entirely sincere.

John hesitated, unsure of anything but what he said next. "No." No, it most certainly did not.

Consequently, Sherlock did not move again, nor did he speak, his slow breaths and John's slightly faster paced ones being the only sound in the room. It was...comforting.

John opened his mouth after a few moments, though nothing came out, and he pressed his lips together as he became aware that he was absolutely speechless. What _could _he say? That he liked this? He did, of course, and words should have been easy to find as apparently the other did as well, but he'd always had a terrible time talking about his feelings to anyone, even his therapist to start out with. And with love, or at least, affection…it was even more difficult. He had gone through entire relationships without murmuring much more than, "So do I." as a response to "I love you." It wasn't as if he _couldn't _say the words, it was just…he hadn't found whom he'd _wanted _to say them to. Almost all of those relationships had lacked something necessary, ending dreadfully on his part (he was quite sure none of them would ever want anything to do with him again) because of his failure to say such back to them. It really wasn't his fault—he was simply waiting for the right person to surprise him.

"_Afghanistan or Iraq, which was it?"_

"…_Afghanistan. I'm sorry, how did you—?"_

John smiled a bit at the memory of their first encounter and how Sherlock had explained so much about him after only being in the same room for mere minutes.

If that hadn't been surprising, he wasn't at all sure what would be.

He chuckled softly, remembering the wink the man had given him after telling him the address of where they both now lived. It hadn't meant anything of course—or, maybe it had? He hadn't known his feelings had been shared until now—but thinking about it now gave him the same feeling that had occurred when Sherlock had touched him just then.

Then he inwardly smacked himself as he suddenly understood something. It was _adventure _he'd needed in the other relationships; something different from mundane life. He liked what he was doing now, solving cases and whatnot, and, however it had happened, he'd taken a liking to the man who'd brought that excitement to him. Despite him being horribly conceited at times, and annoying, and proud…John had grown fond of those exact personality traits, along with the fact that he obviously _was_ caring under all that.

He hoped that the man would be honest with him if he asked what exactly his actions meant. If the reason he had never denied the accusations of them being together (which they actually got a lot) had been because he hadn't minded or even had been_ waiting_ to see what he would do—

He paused. What had he said just then? He was...noting his reaction? Had he been doing that every time someone mistakenly thought them a couple? If he'd been silent because of that instead of pure amusement as he had previously believed, he wanted to know. And he wanted to know before he finally gave into the exhaustion that had been gnawing at him for all the hours he'd been forced to stay up, getting worse now that he was almost completely at ease.

"Sherlock," he began at last as he came back to himself, though immediately felt that the weight on his back had increased. He frowned, craning his neck to see the mop of hair against his shoulder, the face that usually was beneath that turned in the opposite direction. "Sherlock?"

John raised his eyebrows as he didn't get a response. Had the detective genuinely fallen asleep _on_ him?

"_I only sleep when I'm comfortable."_

The doctor couldn't help but smile, shifting slightly and feeling the man's arm was still wrapped around him. He then reached out and silently closed the laptop, grasping Sherlock's wrist and pulling him a bit to the side, enough that he could turn and lean against the couch, repositioning him to rest his head on his shoulder again. Instead, like his subconscious had a better idea, the sleeping detective once more draped an arm across his waist and nestled his head in the crook of the other's neck, making John's heart swell with warmth.

"Not tired, no, not at all." he muttered with a smirk, shaking his head and then hesitantly lowering it to rest on Sherlock's, his eyes sliding shut as he gently clasped his fingers with the hand at his side. They'd speak in the morning. Right now he was determined to get a full night of rest, something he knew _both _of them needed, no matter how much the detective said otherwise.

He was constantly saying otherwise, anyway; continuously trying to convince others that he didn't need what normal humans did. Food, rest...

Affection.

That was what he believed was most unnecessary, as it only distracted him from what he needed to do. Though sleeping was what he'd needed to do just then, and it certainly hadn't 'distracted' him from that.

John's lips twitched into an infinitesimal smile as he drifted off, more content than he had been in a long while, a realization occuring to him as he did so that was finally an explaination to the entire scene that had just happened.

The world's only Consulting Detective, the great Sherlock Holmes, did not _always _have to be one hundred percent correct.

**End**


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